one

A sense of anticipation filled the hall on this opening night of the play, accompanied by excited chatter and preemptory clearings of the throat. Rex Graves sat with his new wife in the front row facing a stage draped with ruby red curtains falling to the floor in heavy folds of velvet. He shifted position on the uncomfortable folding chair, envious of those spectators with the foresight to bring cushions, presumably regular community theatre-goers who had learnt the hard way.

“How long is the play?” he asked Helen, applying a light tone to his educated Scots burr, not wishing to convey his physical discomfort, lest she think he was complaining.

“A couple of hours, I imagine. I really think you’ll enjoy it. It’s a whodunit—right up your street.” She wore a dress in blue jersey that clung to her generous curves, her blonde hair twisted up and held in place by an ornamental clasp. “It makes a pleasant change from going to the cinema.”

“The cinema has plusher seating. You look scrumptious, by the way.”

From the row behind, a querulous female voice muttered, “I won’t be able to see around this big man.”

Rex sank lower in his chair, rounding his shoulders in an attempt to reduce his bulk, and leafed through the programme that had been handed out at the main entrance listing the cast and actors’ bios. Entitled Peril at Pinegrove Hall, the play included five famous sleuths from bygone eras and the usual pool of suspects found in a manor house mystery. Reflecting that the title did not bode well for the actors nor, he feared, for the audience, he placed the leaflet on the scuffed parquet floor beneath his chair with a resigned sigh and, resuming his awkward posture, fantasised about a cold Guinness and a long soak in the bath.

His back felt stiff from the long drive from Edinburgh that morning, and even though there was plenty of legroom in the front row, he dared not stretch his out while people were still finding their seats. Suddenly, the overhead lights dimmed and a hush fell over the hall.

The curtains parted to reveal a parlour scene of overstuffed velour sofas and armchairs arranged around a large Persian rug. Much of the furniture was occupied by figures in shadow, but as the stage lights brightened, the actors and props gradually took on colour and contour. A few spectators clapped.

“It is very curious, I think,” pronounced a foreign-accented individual mincing across the stage in a three-piece pinstripe suit and sprats, his gleaming hair and waxed moustache unnaturally dark. Rex fancied he could almost smell the pomade. A murmur of recognition rose from the audience.

“Dashed curious,” agreed a taller man in morning dress, lounging by a fireplace to the left of the stage. He screwed a monocle into his eye socket to better examine a gilt-framed portrait that hung above the mantelpiece.

“All the more curious for me,” riposted a man seated in an armchair and holding a meerschaum pipe; a deerstalker cap perched on his knee. “It seems I precede you all, chronologically speaking.”

“Indeed, your reputation precedes you, my dear Holmes,” said the man by the fireplace, removing his monocle and bestowing a bow. “The rest of us merely follow in your disquisitive example.”

Why not just say investigative? Rex asked himself.

“I’m delighted to be included in such illustrious company,” tinkled a voice in the far-right corner, where a white-haired lady in a blue silk frock sat placidly knitting on a Chesterfield. Behind the sofa loomed a folding Chinese screen, a plumed fern in a bronze urn beside it adding a touch of greenery to the set.

“Will this take long, I wonder?” A stumpy village priest in a long, black, buttoned coat and white collar stood looking out a painted window, a large round hat in his hand. “I left Flambeau fishing at the lake and now it is pouring down,” he lamented.

The elderly woman lowered her knitting. “I expect Lady Naomi Grove and her solicitor are hoping the five of us can put our heads together and solve this most perplexing mystery with all speed.”

“Well, where in deuce are our hosts?” enquired Sherlock. “I need to get back to London by three to meet with Watson.”

“They are doubtless waiting for us to assemble and become acquainted, and then we shall surely hear more about why we, of all the detectives in England, were invited to Pinegrove Hall. Two purl, three plain,” the knitter counted as she took up her needles again.

“But the answer to that is most clear,” replied Poirot. “We are the crème de la crème, are we not?” And, cocking an ear: “Ah, I believe I hear steps in the foyer.”

The solid French doors at the back of the parlour opened on cue and a lugubrious butler in black coattails and white gloves announced, “Lady Naomi Grove and Miss Robin Busket, if you please.”

A willowy redhead made her entrance in a wide-shouldered blouse and narrow mid-length skirt, followed by a more robust female wearing a tweed jacket, jodhpurs, and riding boots.

“Apologies for keeping you all waiting,” Lady Naomi declared, motioning to Mr. Holmes to remain seated and moving towards the front of the stage. She turned to the butler. “Dorkins, see to it that tea is brought in for ten people. My aunt and Mr. Farley will be joining us. And Henry Chalmers,” she added with a tender smile, gazing out to the audience in loving reflection, her hair, falling in loose waves to her shoulders, shining a reddish gold under the lights. The butler left.

“Robin,” she said, addressing the woman in jodhpurs. “Let me introduce you, in no particular order, to: Miss Jane Marple.”

The spinster beamed from the Chesterfield.

“Father Brown.”

The bespectacled clergyman stumbled forward and murmured a greeting.

“Lord Peter Wimsey.”

His lordship bowed most gallantly.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

The gentleman detective, who had stood despite Lady Naomi’s entreaty to remain seated, inclined his head politely.

“And Monsieur Hercule Poirot himself.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, you do me a great honour.” The diminutive Belgian sleuth took her hand and, inclining his egg-shaped head, kissed it with effusive Gallic courtesy.

“Miss Robin Busket here is my aunt’s companion,” Lady Naomi said, wrapping up the introductions. “Now, I’m sure you are all wondering why you were called to Pinegrove Hall at such short notice, and I am so very glad you were able to attend. As indicated in the invitation, a handsome reward is being offered for the recovery of a priceless heirloom that went missing from this house the night before last.”

“Mademoiselle,” remonstrated Poirot obsequiously, planting himself in the middle of the rug and twiddling his upturned moustache. “Perhaps I may speak for all when I say we are not motivated by reward but by renown!”

“I could not’ve put it better myself,” said the debonair Peter Wimsey. “And may the best man—or lady,” he added with a small bow to Miss Marple, “win!”

“Well, I, for one, should like to know more about this intriguing little competition before I can agree to participate,” countered Holmes with a haughty sneer. “An urgent matter awaits me in the city.” He sat back down and, crossing his legs, took a puff on his pipe.

The French doors opened and three more people entered. Striding to Lady Naomi’s side, an elegant young man clasped her hands to his chest.

“This is Henry Chalmers. We are newly engaged to be married,” the hostess declared.

A flurry of congratulations circulated the parlour.

“Aunt Clara,” she said, wrenching her gaze from the young man’s face and addressing the female newcomer, an older woman dressed severely in black. “As you can see, our guests are all here.”

The equestrian Robin Busket stepped towards the aunt. “Clara, dear, come and sit by the fire. You look chilled to the bone.” The frail woman let her companion guide her to a sofa.

Lady Naomi gestured towards the middle-aged man in a dark suit who had come in with Henry Chalmers and Aunt Clara. “Mr. Farley is our family solicitor and a dear friend. We may now proceed.”

The solicitor commenced by clearing his throat. “A bejewelled gold goblet belonging to the family since the French Revolution has been stolen and must be restored forthwith,” he explained to the detectives in well-modulated tones, while Lady Naomi and her fiancé joined hands and stood back a few paces. “A parlour maid noticed its disappearance from this very room first thing yesterday. No guests have been staying at Pinegrove Hall in the past week and all exterior doors are locked at night. You will have seen when you drove up that the residence stands amid acres of parkland. The gardeners, gamekeepers, and stable hands left for the annual fair in Middleton three days ago and are due to return tomorrow. That leaves the parlour maid, cook, butler …”

“It’s never the butler,” Helen whispered in an aside to Rex, just as his attention began to wander.

He glanced along the front row to where Penny Spencer, who had written the play, sat bolt upright in her seat, no doubt praying no one would forget or fudge their lines. So far, the audience seemed enrapt.

At this point, Miss Marple was suggesting the detectives take a look in the attic, in case the thief had hidden up there while waiting for night time, when he could perpetrate the crime undetected.

“In the attic?” repeated Aunt Clara tremulously, clutching a frothy white handkerchief to her throat.

“Well, it’s a possibility, isn’t it?” Miss Marple chirped. “Unless one of the servants took the goblet, it must be a stranger who would prefer to remain unseen.”

“With all due respect, we should not exclude the rest of the household,” Sherlock Holmes put in stiffly. Sitting back in his chair, pipe in hand, he pointedly surveyed the aunt’s attentive companion, along with the beau, who had been preening in an oval wall mirror and adjusting his floppy cravat.

“I say,” Lord Peter Wimsey asked the solicitor, “is the begemmed artefact insured?”

“Indeed it is, but for a fraction of its true value.”

“And it belongs to Lady Naomi Grove?”

Mr. Farley gave a brisk nod and indicated the portrait above the fireplace. “The whole estate was bequeathed to Her Ladyship by the late Marquis de Bosquet of Pinegrove Hall. Clara Grove, her paternal aunt, is her only surviving relative.”

Rex, huddled on his chair, suppressed a yawn.

“And yet there were rumours of an indiscretion long ago,” the solicitor confided in an undertone directed at the audience.

The French doors opened. “Tea is served,” intoned the butler bearing a tray laden with silver, which he deposited on a round table centre-stage. “And Mr. Chalmers is wanted on the telephone,” he added self-importantly.

“Excuse me, my angel!” The young man exited in a hurry, blowing a kiss to his betrothed.

“I have to wonder …” murmured Robin Busket, gaping after him.

“Henry would never commit such a frightful act,” Lady Naomi declared. “In any case, everything I own will become jointly his on the day we wed. Henry loves me for me!”

“I daresay he does, but he has nothing to his name. And I have heard—”

“Lies!” Naomi interjected. “Now, let us get to the bottom of this wretched business without further ado. I shall look in the attic myself!”

“Take one of the gentlemen with you,” Aunt Clara pleaded, fluttering the lacy handkerchief in the sleuths’ direction.

“No, let them enjoy their tea. There won’t be anyone up there now, but I may find a clue.”

“Dusty, cobwebby attics are good places for trapping clues,” Miss Marple acknowledged. “And, who knows? Perhaps you will find the missing goblet. Alas, I am too old to go exploring with you, and none of our fine gentleman are dressed for it. Poor Father Brown would risk tripping up in his cassock!”

“No matter,” said Lady Naomi, waving these objections aside. “I shall go by myself, I tell you.”

Helen leaned over to Rex. “Here we go,” she whispered. “The Idiot in the Attic scene.”

“Shush!” someone hissed from behind.

Helen made big eyes at Rex, who twitched his lips in amusement.

“Naomi, you always were such a headstrong girl,” the aunt chided ineffectually. “Pray go with her, Robin.”

“I wouldn’t hesitate under normal circumstances, as well you know, my dear, but my ankle is still swollen from the fall. Star is such a spirited stallion,” she informed the guests. “Naomi, at the very least take your father’s revolver with you …”

At this point Rex nodded off, and some minutes later awoke with a start and a soft grunt. A grey screen had materialized onstage, concealing the parlour furniture and replacing it with a shadowy backdrop of old wooden trunks, a broken rocking horse, and a baby carriage. Naomi’s head appeared through a trap door in the floor and she looked around cautiously. Presently, the rest of her emerged, a handgun pointed out from her chest. She stood for a moment in an attitude of attentive listening, a spotlight trained on her motionless form. The trap door thudded shut behind her, startling her from her pose.

Utter silence prevailed as the light dimmed, throwing into focus a hand clasping a dagger magnified in silhouette against the grey screen. People in the audience gasped and the curtains began to close upon the scene to a ripple of applause.

As the heavy red panels joined, a blood-chilling scream rang out onstage, followed by a shot. Rex jumped in his chair, as did Helen, whose hand he was holding. The clapping intensified and the lights went back on in the hall.

“What a good ploy!” one spectator in the front row exclaimed. A few turned to congratulate Penny Spencer. However, the playwright looked nonplussed.